I am the minority. My hands don’t look like theirs. I stand out walking down the street. People look at me differently, and treat me as such. I have expectations put on me because of my skin color. People assume things based off of how I look. But I am not made a felon, I’m made a celebrity. I am cheered on while walking down the streets, “mzungu, mzungu!” I am not looked at with disgust, I am not treated like a servant, people do not assume that I am poor or of less money. I do not fear my life as a mzungu (white person). And so while I am the minority in Africa, I will never know what it is like to be the minority in America. I will never be able to relate to the pain that people face every day. But I can open my eyes, my mind, and my heart, to be aware of the pain. I can allow myself to feel, and not dismiss it because I don’t understand. I can allow myself to feel, instead of numbing myself so I am not compelled to take action. I have the choice to love like the children pictured. To wrap my hands around those who do not look like me, and embrace them for all that they are.
